


The Lay of Fárbauti

by K_dAzrael



Series: Open Hand-verse [2]
Category: Marvel, Thor (2011), Thor (Comics)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Gender Issues, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-01
Updated: 2013-02-03
Packaged: 2017-11-11 05:43:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/475149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/K_dAzrael/pseuds/K_dAzrael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nàl was gazing at Laufey with a speculative look. “I’d very much like to see you in love, sib.”</p><p>“Why?” Laufey swallowed his mouthful of liquor. “Would it improve me, do you think?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the prequel to [With Open Hand](http://archiveofourown.org/works/284963). It makes reference to events revealed in chapters 3 and 8 of the main story, but you don’t really need to read those to understand it.
> 
>  **Warnings** : passing reference to past child death, threats of violence/sexual violence.

Laufey sat at the middle of the board at the feast in celebration of the anniversary of his accession day. Lifewater flowed freely, the meat was dressed and sauced with the greatest skill, and the conversation was animated, his lords in high spirits.

Laufey had much to be grateful for. Not least that his dam had conveniently died as soon as Laufey reached adulthood, giving him the all the glory of kingship while he was still young enough to appreciate it. His realm was prospering – as much as could be expected in such a harsh climate – and he had both the loyalty and goodwill of his subjects.

And yet he was not grateful. 

His brooding was interrupted by the arrival of his flesh-sibling, Nàl.

“You’re late,” he said.

Nàl laughed softly and squeezed the back of Laufey’s neck before easing down into his seat. “I was in the far North, my king. Heidr begged me to take him hunting.”

“You indulge that child’s whims far too often.”

“You are exactly right,” Nàl gave a good-natured smile. “Yet I dare say you will be the same when you have your own.”

“I doubt it.”

“Oh, you are in a dark mood. Is the celebration not magnificent enough?”

Laufey took a deep drink of his liquor. “The same idiotic faces, the same trite sentiments.”

“Ah, surely you don’t think so.” Nàl nodded down the board. “Look, there is Thrym and his two fine youths. I hear they are both very accomplished.”

Laufey gave a curl of his lip. “The elder is a cheap conjurer and the younger has no more imagination than to fancy himself a soldier. As for their dam, his wit and attractions were spent long before we were born.”

“Ah, is _that_ how it is?”

“Don’t try to be arch, Nàl, it doesn’t suit you.”

“Well, I seem to remember a time when you sought his attentions.” 

“Did I? It must have been boredom. There is little else to do at Thrymheim than take a turn between the host’s thighs.”

“I remember he made you laugh.”

“Then you misremember.”

“If you say so.” Nàl was gazing at Laufey with a speculative look. “I’d very much like to see you in love, sib.”

“Why?” Laufey swallowed his mouthful of liquor. “Would it improve me, do you think?”

Nàl smiled and shook his head. “People love as they are. And I would never dare suggest you could be improved on.”

“Then why bother?”

“I don’t think I have ever seen you feel joy, Laufey. Not since we were very small.”

Laufey’s expression held limitless scorn. “Well, I have already tired of the court. I highly doubt I’ll be overwhelmed with joy any time soon.

“Ah, but I did hear tell of something that might interest you.” Nàl leaned closer. “When I was in the North, the people spoke of a wonder that dwells in a village on the foothills of the mountains.”

“A thing with two heads, perhaps – is that what you would have me paired off with?” 

Nàl’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “No, no – a _beauty_ they say. The fairest of our kind that ever lived! They go so far as to claim that this paragon has a touch of the divine about him.”

Laufey snorted in derision. “I lay you a bet, Nàl, there is no such thing. It is a hog they have shaved to gull the bumpkins out of their bent copper coins – depend upon it.”

Nàl smiled at his sibling’s acerbic wit. “I will take that bet, Laufey. The victor shall have the pick of the next great hunt.” 

Laufey offered his arm. “Done.”

*~*~*

Little Golnir was in the middle of his nightly routine of rubbing his eyes and crying.

“I’m not tired. I’m not. I’m NOT. I’m not tired.” The child’s high, repetitive whine was interspersed with heartfelt sobs, as if there was no more cruel or inglorious fate he could imagine than being made to lie down and close his eyes.

Fárbauti’s dam (Golnir’s sire) watched the child with increasing irritation from his place at the table. 

“Ah, little one,” Fárbauti’s sire (Golnir’s dam) appealed, “will you ever hush? Your poor sire is trying to eat his supper.”

“You will catch a smack in a minute,” Fárbauti warned him gravely. 

Fárbauti’s dam gave a grunt of assent. “Then you will have something to howl about. Get on that bed and stop your noise.”

“I’m not TIRED,” the child insisted, jumping up and down on the earthen floor of their house.

Fárbauti’s dam threw down his spoon with a clatter and got to his feet, catching Golnir’s arm and yanking it to twist the child around, then giving him a single, hard slap across the back of the thighs. Tears sprang into Golnir’s eyes and he began to bawl, falling onto his behind with a thump. Fárbauti’s dam cursed and stalked out the door, slamming it behind him.

“Now look what you’ve done,” Fárbauti’s sire lamented with a sigh, rising to scoop the child into his lap. “Hush now, stop all this foolishness.”

Golnir’s yells quietened into sobs as his dam held him close and rocked him. “How is there such woe in such a little thing, eh?” When the child had finally ceased his noise, the elder giant called out: “Fárbauti, will you go to your dam and bid him come in again?”

Fárbauti shook his head. “Let him come back in his own time.”

His sire gave him a penetrating look. “You seem melancholy, my love.”

“It’s nothing,” Fárbauti played with the silver rings on his wrist – gifts from his petitioners, carved with their names in trust of remembrance in his prayers.

“You used to trust me to keep your counsels.”

Fárbauti looked away, not wanting to see the hurt in his sire’s eyes. Golnir’s deep breathing had become a very soft, childish snore. 

“Was I as troublesome at that age?” Fárbauti asked.

“You?” his sire smiled and shook his head. “No, you were a treasure. Fair and smiling, always.” When Fárbauti continued to look distant, his sire asked: “have you quarreled with your sweetheart?”

“Who could quarrel with Holt?” Fárbauti rose, crossing to the cottage door. He found his dam sitting on the frost-rimed tree trunk that they had yet to chop for wood, hands on his knees as he gazed off into the forest.

“The little terror is asleep and your supper is waiting for you by the fire.”

His dam nodded to acknowledge his child’s words, continuing to stare ahead. “I heard wolves again tonight. Golnir must not go wandering on his own.”

“Yes, dam.”

“Well?”

It was the closest Fárbauti was likely to get to an invitation. He eased himself down next to the older giant, crossing his arms over his chest. “Someone came to me today – a great, rough-handed smith. He reminded me of you.”

“And what was his complaint – that he is unloved, or that he cannot conceive?” 

Fárbauti ignored the scorn in the other giant’s tone – he knew well enough what his dam thought of his vocation. “Neither. His belly was swollen with a child.”

“Then what ailed him?”

“He had birthed two already. One lived five days, the other a bare handful of hours.”

His dam tilted his head in assent. “Aye. That is hard.”

Fárbauti tilted his head back to look at the stars. “I cannot forget his words. He said... he could be easier if he knew only the outcome. He asked me if I had that power – to know what will be.”

“What reply did you give?”

“I laid my hands on him and told him all would be well. He was so grateful that he wept.” Fárbauti played anxiously with his bracelets. “I suppose I will never know what becomes of it.”

“What do you want of me – to tell you you did right?”

“No. I just thought you would understand better than sire – he has always said that I give hope.” Fárbauti glanced up at his dam’s implacable face. “Now I wonder if hope is not cruel.”

“We are born to a hard life in a hard land,” Fárbauti’s dam rose to his feet with a grunt, joints clicking. “He who cannot bear his share of woe has no right to count himself a Jotun.” 

“Dam, would you like it if I went to the fields with you tomorrow?”

“What would you have to do in the fields, child?”

Fárbauti shrugged. “I could help. I want to help.”

“Eh, and ruin your fair hands? Get your hair all tangled up in knots? What good would that do?”

Fárbauti bowed his head, staring at his own toes as he flexed them on the hard-packed snow. “I don’t want to be a disappointment to you. I don’t want to be useless.”

“There, child,” his dam’s voice softened, almost imperceptibly. “Golnir is a stout lad – he will work the fields when I am gone, and you may ply your sire’s trade, if a trade you must have.”

Fárbauti looked up sharply. “What do you mean, ‘if’?”

“Holt is a goodly youth, and well-skilled. He’d be glad to have you dwelling beneath his roof – I dare say he’d ask nothing in return.”

“Is that what I am, a prize to be carried off? A trinket or curiosity?”

“Nay, take it not so hard! He loves you well, Fárbauti.”

Fárbauti stalked back towards the cottage, leaving his dam grumbling in his wake.

*~*~*

Golnir had been laid upon the large bed and Fárbauti’s dam had finally eaten the rest of his supper when the peace of the household was interrupted by a rap upon the door. Fárbauti’s sire answered it, his lined face breaking into a smile as he stepped back to admit Holt. The young hunter was carrying a brace of hares over his shoulders, which he presented to Fárbauti’s sire with a respectful bob of his head.

“I thought, you could use the skins as well as the meat.” He looked acutely embarrassed, uncertain as to whether his gift would be welcome.

“Thank-you, Holt,” Fárbauti’s sire smiled warmly as he received the offering. “Though I am sure I am not the one you came to woo.”

Holt lowered his eyes. “Fárbauti... I know it is late, but I wondered if you would care to walk out with me?”

Fárbauti forced himself to smile, to rise and go to the door with seeming alacrity.

He strode down the path ahead of Holt, who had to break into a jog to catch up with him.

“Fárbauti, is something amiss?” 

“Nothing, Holt. I was just quarreling with my dam.”

“Ah, it must be hard, all four of you dwelling together.”

Fárbauti knew well enough what Holt was driving at, but refused to catch the end of the offered thread. “Where’ve you been these last few days?”

“Over on the western ridge. Snaring the hares, as you see, and a few of the woolly goats. They fetched a good price in the village.” Holt caught his arm, drawing Fárbauti towards him. “Did you miss me? Oh, I could think of nothing but you.” His fingers trailed their way up to Fárbauti’s shoulder, the shadowy hollow of his clavicle. “Your eyes and your mouth, and the woodsmoke scent of your hair. My love – my only love.”

“Would you love me if I were ugly?” Fárbauti asked him. “If my hands were rough and my features course? If no-one thought I was special?”

Holt looked up at him with a startled expression. Fárbauti realised he had been too sharp, too angry – Holt would not hear his question, only his displeasure.

“Fárbauti, are you vexed with me? Have I neglected you?”

“No, no you have never–” Fárbauti shook his head. He had no words for how he felt, even if Holt would hear them. A tight, strangling feeling reached up from his solar plexus to his throat. “I am in a strange mood – heed me not.”

Holt took him to the great cataract in the foothills, a magnificent spectacle in the safe, cold seasons, but now on the point of melting for Jotunheim’s brief growing time. The huge mass of suspended ice had begun slowly breaking free from its moorings. Eventually it would slough off to crash down upon the riverbed below, shattering into huge ice-boulders and tiny needle-like slivers before melting. 

It made loud cracks at intervals, bursts of sound Fárbauti found both startling and ominous. 

Holt smoothed a circle in the fresh snow and beckoned Fárbauti down with him. They kissed, Fárbauti on his back with his hand curled loosely around Holt’s shoulder; Holt on his side, leaning into the other giant, but not pressing him down. Fárbauti closed his eyes and let himself be lulled by the simplicity of it, the shifting join of their mouths. 

Holt’s hands were always gentle, skimming reverently across the expanses of Fárbauti’s skin. 

“I wish your heart would pound like this for me,” he said, a smile keeping it in the realm of a joke as he spread his hand over Fárbauti’s chest. “Easy, my love. We’re safe here, far from harm’s way.”

“It’s late... I want to go home,” Fárbauti looked back at his lover, thought about Holt’s long trudge back to his own cabin. “But you can come back with me, if you like.”

“Will not your parents mind my staying?”

Fárbauti shook his head. “They like you.” 

“You dam doesn’t.”

“He doesn’t like anyone. It is his way.”

“You’re like him. Prickly and stubborn.”

Fárbauti laughed. “Am I?”

*~*~*

They crept quietly into the darkened cottage, the dying embers of the fire providing just enough light for them to pick their way between the two pallets.

On the larger bed, the rest of Fárbauti’s family lay in the shaft of moonlight coming through their single ice-block window. His dam (the shorter and stockier of the two adults) lay nearest the wall on his left side, one arm draped across his lover’s middle. Fárbauti’s sire lay on his back, while Golnir nestled against him with a head on his shoulder. 

Fárbauti and Holt fitted together in the smaller bed only with difficulty, trying not to laugh and stifling the yelps from misplaced elbows. Fárbauti was just beginning to settle when he felt Holt’s questing fingertips in the crease between his his hipbone and thigh.

“Holt, If we wake my brother–”

“I can be quiet.”

“No you can’t.” Fárbauti felt the huff of frustration against the back of his neck. 

“You are very cruel to me.” 

“Go to sleep you ridiculous creature.” 

In the morning, Fárbauti extricated himself from Holt’s embrace and sat up, beginning the laborious process of separating out the strands of his long, wavy hair. After some minutes Holt stretched and grumbled, blinking up at him.

“Stay for breakfast?” Fárbauti asked, reaching down to brush his thumb across his lover’s cheek.

Holt yawned and grasped his wrist, stroking the sensitive spot at his pulse-point. “I should get back to check my snares.”

“Alright, I’ll walk some of the way with you.”

They rose and put on their garments. As they were turning towards the door, Fárbauti was arrested by the plaintive tones of his sire: “Take your brother with you if you’re going out.” 

Golnir was no more than half awake by this point, rubbing his eyes and fussing, so Fárbauti reached down to pick him up, hitching the sleepily protesting child on one hip. “Come on you little terror. _Oof_! You are getting heavy.”

“Why can’t I stay in bed?” Golnir whined against his ear.

Fárbauti caught the amused glimpse in his sire’s eyes as his dam’s hand twitched on his hip. “Give your poor parents some time to themselves, hmm?”

“Do what your older brother tells you, Golnir.”

“He’s only my spirit brother!” the child protested, making a face over Fárbauti’s shoulder.

*~*~*

Fárbauti had to hold Golnir steady while he pissed to stop the sleep-giddy child from splashing his own feet. He then trailed him down the path to where Holt waited, making apologetic eyes at his lover.

Holt crouched down to be at Golnir’s height and pointed to the yellowish shrub poking through the partially melted ground. 

“What’s that?” he asked the child. 

“Crowberry!” Golnir snorted. “ _Everyone_ knows that.”

“And what do you use it for?”

“For eating, when the berries are ripe. And... my dam says the leaves can make a tea for stomach ache.”

“Right, but what else can you see that you could eat?”

Golnir looked around “Nothing else!”

“I can see... five things. Five things we could eat, if we were very hungry.”

“Crowberry,” said Golnir to himself, folding down his thumb to count it off. He tugged at his bottom lip and looked around himself. 

“Perhaps it’s easier if you’re higher up.” Holt crouched down and let Golnir climb onto his back, arms clasped around the hunter’s neck. “Look at the trees.”

“Lichen,” said Fárbauti, pointing to the bark of a dwarf willow.

“Fárbauti, you’re not allowed to play!” the child protested. Holt laughed and ran down the hill a little way, Golnir shrieking in delight at the bumping and lurching. When Holt put him down again the child reached up and grasped the elder giant’s hand, so absurdly flattered to have an adult’s full attention that he listened with every sign of attention to Holt’s lesson on edible plants.

Holt smiled at Fárbauti, showing his crooked teeth. He was a homely youth, but Fárbauti had never minded that. 

_He is a good man,_ Farbauti thought. 

Perhaps that would be enough.

*~*~*

Fárbauti reentered the cottage (with Golnir in tow) to find his sire sitting up at the table with his work laid out before him. “Has dam gone down to the fields already?” 

“Aye, it’s the time for delving, now the surface frost is giving way. There’s root mash for you both by the fire.”

Fárbauti’s sire put down the complex piece of leatherwork he had been busy with (the side panel of a girdle) and took Golnir onto his knee, stroking the child’s arms as he babbled on about the things Holt had told him.

“He’s very clever, isn’t he? Isn’t Fárbauti lucky to have such a sweetheart?”

“But Fárbauti doesn’t love him!” the child declared, proud at knowing a secret.

“Why do you say that?”

“He doesn’t smile when Holt kisses him. I would, if Holt was _my_ sweetheart.” 

Fárbauti’s sire laughed. “You’re a little young for all that yet, Golnir. Now listen – eat your breakfast like a good child, and then I want you to run to the village and bring some of that good rabbit meat to your grandam.”

“I don’t want to go to grandam’s – it smells!”

“It’s a tannery, child, of course it does! Go on, and stop being so difficult, or your sire will hear of it when he gets home.” 

When Golnir had obediently sat up on the table and started to eat, Fárbauti’s sire turned his attention back to the elder of his offspring. “Your hair will be a thicket again if you don’t have a care of it. Why don’t you let me have a go?”

Fárbauti huffed in frustration. “I should cut it all off and have done.”

“It would only grow back again. Come on now,” his sire rose and placed the stool he had been sitting on in the centre of the room, gesturing for Fárbauti to sit and making him feel like the more unreasonable child. 

His sire had long, deft hands, perpetually stained brown at the tips from handling fresh hides. Everything he did he did with patience and sureness – untangling Farbauti’s hair was no exception. The motion of it had almost lulled the seated youth to sleep again, but then the elder giant spoke up: “well, if Holt doesn’t please you, I suppose that’s that. Still, he’s a kind and mannerly youth – it would be a shame to cast him aside without good reason.”

“I never said I’m going to cast him aside,” Fárbauti snapped, annoyed that his sire was unprepared to let the subject drop.

“... I mean, it’s not as if he’s cruel, or a drunkard. Is he unfaithful? Is he an unskillful lover?”

“No,” Fárbauti admitted, “none of those things.”

“Is there someone else you like better?”

“No. I just... I can’t make myself love him, that’s all. Nor do I think his love for me is so very deep as he claims.”

“Why so?”

“What does he know or care of me, but that I am called fair? What does anyone, but my kin? I would rather be here trying to reason with my spiteful little brother than listening to all Holt’s mooning flatteries.” Fárbauti drummed a restless tattoo on the floor with his toes. “I am sorry to disappoint your hopes – I know you and dam are anxious to have me packed off.”

His sire pinched Fárbauti’s shoulder’s painfully. “Oh child, why would you say such a thing?”

“He said as much himself. He thinks I am a shiftless burden, good for nothing but to be someone’s prize.”

“No, no, no, Fárbauti! Your dam has lived a hard life, he does not want that for you. He wants to see you well cared for. You are his only treasure, he would not see you broken and old before your time.”

Fárbauti gave a dismissive grunt. “You always speak as if he thinks like you.” 

The older giant crouched by his side, his gaze anxious and searching. “You don’t know him as I do. You don’t know the youth he was, or how want and sorrow hardened him. You cannot remember the tendernesses he gave you as an infant. I may be mistaken about many things, but not this. Fárbauti, you must _never_ speak to him of these thoughts – such uncharitable words would break his heart.” 

Shamed, Fárbauti turned his face away. His sire clasped his hand and squeezed it.

“We would rather keep you here with us than anything – its is no matter to your dam and I that were are squashed together like fledgelings in a nest. But you are grown now, and it is natural you should want to choose a companion, and have your own household and a little space to raise your own children.”

Fárbauti’s gaze flicked downwards. “What if I don’t want those things?”

“This life is a hard journey to take the whole way alone, child. And _you_...”

“What?”

“Don’t be vexed when I say this, Fárbauti... but you are a special person. Your dam and I have always been afraid for you, that if you should stray and find yourself friendless...” his sire closed his eyes and shook his head as if to banish an unwanted thought. “There are those who would use you to their own ends, who would see your gifts as a means to profit.”

“You both worry too much. Dam thinks Golnir will be eaten by wolves.”

The child squeaked in indignation. “A wolf wouldn’t eat me, would it?”

Fárbauti’s sire laughed, rising and leaning over to kiss the top of the child’s head. “No, little one. A dinner as troublesome as you would surely give it indigestion.” 

*~*~*

After breakfast, Fárbauti made his way to the shrine, as it was called, although it was nothing more than a large standing stone. Jotnar long-dead and forgotten had carved it with the image of Ymir, smaller figures emerging from the titan’s great bulk. 

Fárbauti had heard that in the royal city there was a temple big enough to hold all the houses of his village inside it, and that generations of Jotunheim’s most skilled masons had carved every inch of its vaulted ceilings. A score of priests tended its lights and presented the offerings of the citizens with all manner of ceremonies.

The single stone was all Fárbauti’s people had – that and Fárbauti himself, who was not a priest of a healer, but a listener. He made his way down the steps cut into the hillside, curving around the hind-side of the stone. A small crowd was already waiting at a respectful distance. He beckoned the first of them forth and took his place on the flattened boulder that was his habitual seat. 

The petitioner unfolded his woe and Fárbauti offered what comfort he could. With reluctance he accepted the giant’s offering – a small medallion of silver, stamped with a simple design. A trinket in the eyes of a lord, but of great price to a farmer such as this. Fárbauti did not like offerings, but there were those who could not be dissuaded. Perhaps they thought blessings more efficacious if they were paid for. 

He went home in the late afternoon when the crowd had dispersed, stopping by the fields where his dam was delving to offer him the cakes a petitioner had brought, a mix of suet, sweet sap and the same precious grain the workers were now striving to make the ground fit to receive. 

His dam gravely divided the first three cakes among his fellow labourers, then wrapped the last of them back in its cloth and handed it to Fárbauti.

“Take that home to your brother and share it with him,” he said. “See if it buys us a peaceful night for once.”

“Yes, dam.”

The older giant touched Fárbauti’s cheek in farewell. “Stop staring at him, you layabouts,” he chided the others. “He’s not for the likes of you.”

“Oi, gaffer,” one of the youngest called, “how did such a divine creature spring from your shriveled old womb?” There was a low ripple of laughter from the others.

“I don’t know what alchemy it was that took place in my belly, but I do know I’ll give you a belt in yours if you don’t stop gawping and get back to your work.”

The labourers laughed more heartily at this, and even Fárbauti’s dam quirked a smile as he turned away.

*~*~*

Fárbauti slept fitfully that night. His heart pounded and a strange feeling of dread gripped him. He woke to find Golnir staring at him and prodding him with a sharp little finger.

“You stink, Fárbauti!” the child crowed, wrinkling his nose.

“I do not, you little horror!”

His sire came over to drag the child away, but paused, frowning at Fárbauti, then laying a hand on his brow.

“Fárbauti, are you coming on?”

Fárbauti shifted and felt that maddening rush of sensation through his lower half.

“Oh, it’s not fair!” he cried, carding his hands through his sleep-ruffled hair. “Why am I always out of season?”

“What’s wrong with him?” Golnir pried, tugging anxiously on his dam’s girdle. “Is he sick?”

“No child, he’s quite well. Go on, run to your sire and tell him to fetch Holt.”

“No!” Fárbauti protested, sitting up and gathering the furs over his lap.

Fárbauti’s sire pushed at his child’s shoulder. “Do as I say, Golnir. On with you!”

“You had no right to do that!”

“I would not see you suffer, nor have you waste an opportunity to get with a child of your own.”

“It is my choice, sire.”

“Who said it wasn’t?” the elder giant began to gather up his leatherwork and headed towards the door. “Discuss it with Holt and then make your choice.”

There was no discussion, of course – by the time Holt arrived Fárbauti was starving for a lover’s touch. He barely waited for Holt to get the latch fastened behind him before he was scrabbling at the catch on the hunter’s girdle, covering his neck and jaw with bites.

“It’s like that, is it?” Holt said, his voice a rumble of amusement as Fárbauti dragged him across the room to the rumpled bed.

Fárbauti threw himself onto his back and eagerly spread his thighs, fingers parting his labia to dabble in the wetness there and spread it up to the base of his prick. Holt obligingly wrapped his fist around the shaft and _squeezed_ , giving Fárbauti an openly worshipful look (which Fárbauti was too far gone to care about in the least). 

“So,” Holt asked, kneeling over Fárbauti and rubbing their pricks together, “will you let me have a turn underneath you this time, or am I to work myself to exhaustion as usual?”

Fárbauti tilted his hips to press their cunts together, then ground his pelvis in a slow circle. “Exhaust yourself first, and then we’ll see.”

“You’re very cruel to me,” Holt said – yet this time it sounded oddly admiring.

*~*~*

The melting snow made the land passable again to those from beyond the realm, bringing to Fárbauti’s village the merchants of Svartalfheim, on their way to the royal city to trade their ceramics and finely-worked metals. They stopped for the night just outside the village, setting a great bonfire and swapping their wares with the locals in return for food and company. One small group had instruments – a pipe and skin-covered drum, and something a little like a harp, but wooden and rested on the shoulder, played with a curious stick-like device. The sound it made was high and tremulous – Golnir shrieked with delight to hear it, tugging at Fárbauti’s arm as the family made their way towards the merry gathering.

Fárbauti basked in the light of the fire and watched his sire teaching Golnir to dance, holding the child’s hands as they both stared in concentration at their feet. His dam stood further off in a knot of his fellow farmers, tossing out their familiar complaints about soils, seeds and weather. 

All of a sudden, Fárbauti felt hands brushing through his hair. He jerked around to see one of the visitors regarding him with keen interest. He opened his mouth and spoke in that odd, rasping tongue of theirs, blinking his large inky eyes.

“I don’t understand you,” Fárbauti said.

The elf was only as tall as Fárbauti’s elbow, so at first he almost took it for a child. His skin was of a paler hue than Fárbauti’s – closer to grey than blue – and his hair was a startling white like starlight. His chest was rounded as if milk-laden beneath the fabric of his fur-lined cloak, but when he turned to call over one of his fellows Fárbauti could see that he carried no child at his back. 

The second elf to approach acted as a translator. “My spouse says he did not know your kind could be handsome.”

Fárbauti stared between them – the first elf was somewhat shorter and slighter than the other. “But... why are you wed, if you are not lords?”

The merchant smiled. “It is different for our people. We come in two kinds, and we like to make up a pair.”

The first elf spoke again, his voice high and melodic. His spouse once again relayed the stream of words: “he says that one of your ancestors must have played a trick with one of ours.”

Fárbauti laughed. “Perhaps so. My grandam had hair, too. He always said his sire was a stranger.”

“My spouse says he has something for you.” 

The first elf reached into the folds of his long garment and produced a curious, dainty object, holding it up to Fárbauti. It was a pale orangey-pink colour and made of something like stone, finely carved on the upper portion and then tapering into a series of wide-spaced tines. 

“What is it?”

“It’s a comb. Made of ocean coral.”

“What is it for?”

The merchant seemed amused. “For grooming, lovely giant. How else do you untangle your hair?”

“Oh, I use my fingers.” Fárbauti suddenly felt very foolish. “It... it takes a long time.”

The elven pair had another softly murmured conference, this time punctuated with laughter. “He says the price of it is a kiss.”

Fárbauti got down on one knee to allow the first elf to put his plump little arms around his neck. The kiss caught the corner of his mouth, as soft as the fluttering of a moth’s wings.

*~*~*

It had grown late when Fárbauti’s family climbed up the hill towards their dwelling. Golnir was whining in over-tiredness and knuckling at the corner of his eye, his other hand clasped tightly in his sire’s.

By the light of the moon they could see that there were soldiers in the doorway of their cottage.

Fárbauti had never seen soldiers before – but he knew that to be what they were by the scars cut into their bodies. They were no taller than himself, but grim-faced and thickly muscled. Although they were yet to move, something in their stature spoke of violence.

Fárbauti’s dam caught Golnir up and pressed the child’s face to his shoulder with one large hand, seeking to protect him either from seeing or being seen. Fárbauti’s sire grasped his elder child’s arm and tried to pull him backwards towards the woods. 

“Do you really think to out-run us, you stupid peasant? Stay where you are.”

“What business have you with us?” Fárbauti’s sire demanded. “This household pays our lord’s tithes.” His voice quavered and it was apparent by the look on the faces of both of Fárbauti’s parents that they were absolutely terrified.

“We have naught to do with you, beldame – it’s with your stripling there.” It was the left-hand soldier who spoke. This giant had a narrow, malicious face, while the second soldier was square-jawed and as impassive as a glacier. “We have come for him by order of Laufey, high king of Jotunheim.”

Fárbauti folded his arms over his chest. He was surprised to find that he himself felt no fear - only a bright, swiftly mounting anger. “If King Laufey desires my intercession, then he should have sent more civil petitioners.”

“King Laufey does not _petition_.” the second soldier growled. “He reaches out and takes what pleases him, and we, the royal guard, are his arms!”

“Then you take me fighting and screaming the whole way. And every field we pass I will call for aid, and the honest laborers will rush to batter you.”

“You think yourself of such high value?”

“The people of these lands believe that I am a sign of favour from the gods. If you had a divine gift, would you allow a couple of savages to carry it off?” His sire’s grip tightened painfully on Fárbauti’s arm. The second soldier hissed in indignation and made as if to lunge forward before a sharp gesture from the other stayed him.

The first soldier seemed entertained by Fárbauti’s insolence. “I think it would surprise you, lovely stripling, to learn what men are prepared to lose before their own lives.”

“Enough of this!” the second barked. “Come with us willingly or we’ll have to amuse ourselves with your kin here.”

“Oh yes,” the first affirmed, craning his neck. “My companion has been spoiling for a brawl since we set out, and that tall one,” he indicated Fárbauti’s dam, “looks like he would be a bit of sport. I wonder who would win if Skrymir here played a little tug-of-war with that brat that cleaves to him, hmm? Now my vice is lust. Laufey said we might not interfere with _you_ but nothing was said about the ones who spawned you.” He cast a glance over Fárbauti’s sire, who seemed to shrink in disgust beneath it. “Is it this one that’s your dam? There’s a faint resemblance, I fancy, and I don’t mind a loose cunt.” 

Golnir chose his moment to begin to cry, his high-pitched wail making everything infinitely more terrible. 

“Then,” said the second soldier, “perhaps we’ll take a stroll through the village.” In the palm of his hand there grew a pikestaff of ice. “I bet you have cousins and loved-ones there. How about I decorate the shit-strewn streets of this backwater with their heads?”

“Enough!” Fárbauti cried. “I will go with you, and quietly. Only leave my family and the village untouched.”

The first soldier twisted his lip, looking faintly disappointed by Fárbauti’s acquiescence. 

“Ah well,” said the second with a regretful purse of his lips. “If that’s how it must be.”

Fárbauti’s sire turned to him with wild, pleading eyes. “Run, child - we will hold them back long enough for you to get away. Run!”

“Oh my sire,” Fárbauti felt tears spring into his eyes. “Do you think so little of your own life, or that I do? I will go to the king if it takes these bloodthirsty ones from our hearth. Aye, and dwell gladly in captivity forever if it only keeps you safe.”

Fárbauti heard a strange choked sound and turned to see that his dam was staring at him with tears standing on his cheeks.

“Look on the bright side,” the first soldier said. “The king may well tire of you soon enough – he’s easily bored.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'O my America! My Newfoundland!  
> My kingdom, safest when with one man mann’d.' 
> 
> **Warnings** : Implied dub-con (minor characters). Sexy colonialism. 
> 
> Also, I am sorry this took so long. I blame RL workload and my fic attention deficit (three unfinished stories languishing on my laptop now!).

Fárbauti and the soldiers made their way south-west, chasing the ice as it receded across the tundra. The first of his escorts, Skrymir, was a stocky, thickly-muscled giant. He was the elder of the two and seemed to hold the most authority – his long stretches of silence were occasionally punctuated by gruffly-barked orders. The second, Brusi, had a narrow, hungry face and a loping gait. He was more inclined towards speech, but he had a taunting, ribald sense of humour, and seldom revealed anything of use. 

“What is the royal city like?” Fárbauti asked as they trudged grimly through the featureless landscape of the plains, finding it hard going on the unstable surface frost.

“Its beauty rivals even yours, fair godling.” 

“I’ve heard that the snows never melt there, is that true?”

Brusi nodded sagely. “Aye. It is Jotunheim’s true heart, unwavering.”

“Is there a great temple there?”

“Oh yes,” Brusi’s eyes twinkled. “Perhaps Laufey will tumble the Casket of Ancient Winters from its pillar and perch you there instead, hmm? Then the good citizens can line up and pay him for the privilege of kissing your divine arsehole.”

“You’re disgusting!” Fárbauti huffed, breaking into a run to stride ahead. Brusi reached out and grasped his wrist, catching him as Fárbauti slid and almost fell.

“Let him be,” Skrymir chided. “Laufey will have me sew up your cunt and lop off your incorrigible prick if you don’t keep your grubby hands off his prize.”

“I’m going to be sick,” Fárbauti said – and then he was, bent double and heaving painfully.

“Easily spooked, isn’t he?” Brusi commented, sniffing.

*~*~*

They made camp, finding a sheltering rockface and delving a hollow to set a fire. Brusi went off into a copse of stunted trees and returned some hours later with an adolescent boar. The soldiers set to work gutting it and dividing up the carcass, long doubly-sharp blades of ice sprouting from between the first two knuckles of each giant’s right hand. 

The smell of the cooking meat turned Fárbauti’s stomach further. He piled snow around himself and tried to drift off to sleep.

Some time later, the jangling of many bells woke him and Fárbauti sat up, blearily rubbing his eyes. There was a flock of goats flowing into the hollow, and behind them a lanky youth in a girdle of ragged pelts. He carried a staff of ice and was looking fearfully at where the two soldiers sat brooding by the fire.

Brusi stood up and beckoned the youth, calling softly to him and smiling with seeming good humour. The goatherd was tempted closer with an offer of liquor from a flask and a share of the meat. Following his tentative nod of acceptance, Brusi sprang to his feet to helped the youth to pen up the goats in a circle of close-spaced icicles, called forth with the assistance of the still-frozen ground.

When the youth sat down, Brusi immediately placed himself near, giving every sign of friendliness and hospitality. He seemed to make much of the youth, pressing him to take another drink. Finally he leaned in to speak into the youth’s ear, caressing his cheek with the backs of his fingers. The goatherd started and made to move away, but Brusi stayed him with a strong grip on his wrist. Brusi then raised his free hand and a piece of silver appeared between his fingers. The youth pulled at his bottom lip, darting eyes expressing his hesitance.

Finally, he reached out and took the piece. Brusi grinned and rose to grasp his hand, linking their fingers together and indicating the copse of trees a way off. The goatherd hunched his shoulders and looked back fearfully, but went with him. 

“He won’t hurt that lad, will he?” Fárbauti asked.

Skrymir’s only reply was to give a derisive snort and lean back, folding his arms across his chest and closing his eyes. 

*~*~* 

When they reached the royal city at last, the anxiety which had weighed on Fárbauti’s mind temporarily lifted. He stared upwards with his mouth agape as they walked down the central avenue towards the palace. Twin spires of pure, translucent ice pierced the sky and caught the dying light to dapple it across the drifts in lush tones of crimson and pink. Between the spires Fárbauti could see the rising dome of what his captors told him was the temple.

Although it seemed to loom tantalisingly close on the horizon, it took a long time to reach the palace proper. Night had long fallen and Fárbauti felt close to tears with weariness, light-headed from lack of proper rest or nourishment – and underneath it all the persistent nausea remained, by now as familiar a companion as the two soldiers at his back.

When they reached the gates there were urgent conferences with guards within before the party gained admission. Fárbauti was handed off to the house guards, and then to a steward, who brought him with grave admonitions of silence towards an inner hall.

Great doors were thrown open and yellow torchlight dazzled Fárbauti’s eyes as he was given a push of encouragement to enter the room. There was a buzz of conversation from where a score of Jotun lords lounged or sat upon scattered furs. This was not the throne room, but there was no doubting the identity of the king – Laufey had a poise and assurance that was unmistakably regal.

The steward rushed ahead of Fárbauti and went bowingly to the king. Laufey sat up, gaze traveling to Fárbauti as he dismissed the attendant with a curt gesture. 

Seeing the king’s interest, the other lords began to turn from their conversations, and thus Laufey’s next words could be heard distinctly: “well brother, it seems the time has come to decide our wager. Here is your wonder of the North.”

The giant Laufey had addressed blinked curiously at Fárbauti. “Oh, but he is indeed a fair creature! Surely you must yield, Laufey.”

“I may yet dispute your terms, Nàl. ‘The _fairest_ of our kind’, you said.”

“Think you it is not so? When have you ever encountered one better favoured?”

Laufey rose with an unfolding of his spare, powerful limbs and approached Fárbauti, who could think of nothing better to do than duck his head so his hair would fall across his face and conceal him from so many curious eyes.

“Look up,” Laufey said. He began to pace a slow circle around Fárbauti, like a herdsman appraising livestock. “Tell me, Nàl,” he called to his sibling, “how is fairness to be gauged? What are its weights and measures? Shall we plot the distance between his brows, or measure the gradient of his cheek? Shall we fetch architects to survey the structure and pronounce it sound?”

“A pretty conceit,” Nàl replied, smiling gently. “But beauty has no earthly measure, for it is not a thing of ingredients or parts.” 

Laufey tutted, stroking his jaw. “Then how is the matter between us ever to be concluded?”

“Well, I will take your word on it, Laufey. You are the king – if you believe him the fairest of our kind, that judgement will stand for the rest of us.”

Laufey gazed at Fárbauti in silence for a long moment. Eventually, he nodded and said: “Very well. I yield.”

Nàl laughed and raised his glass. “Well, it seems there’s a first time for everything.” 

Laufey reached out to grasp Fárbauti’s chin. “I have heard that you are something like a god. Is that true?”

“If it please you, my king...” Fárbauti’s voice was rough and quiet when it finally emerged, yet the lords still sent up a titter (Fárbauti well knew the cause of their amusement, for Brusi had spent entire stretches of their journey mimicking his speech, rendering its burrs and deep vowels moronic). “Others have called me such – I never claimed it was so.” 

“Yet neither have you denied it. What are your supposed powers?”

“There are those who believe my touch a blessing, in matters of love and of childbearing.”

Laufey turned to address his sibling once more. “Did you know of this?”

Nàl raised his hands in a gesture which pleaded ignorance.

“You know, in the other realms they think our kind ugly. Because we are bigger and stronger than the... _daintier_ races – elves and Aesir and Vanir – they call us brutes.” Laufey exhaled, nostrils flaring in an expression of contemptuous amusement. “You cannot imagine their ridiculous fancies. That we gobble up infants, bones and all. That we kill our kin for sport. That none of us can read or even string together a sentence made up of more than grunts,” he made a hissing sound of derision. “Well. Perhaps I should send you forth to dazzle them all and to know that Jotunheim, too, has its treasures. Shall I make make you an ambassador, hmm?” 

Fárbauti licked his dry lips, having no idea how to reply. 

“No,” said Laufey, consideringly. “I fear I am too jealous for that. Why should strangers enjoy the sight of you, and Jotunheim itself be left bereft?”

Fárbauti shrugged, bowing his head again. “Whither I go is at your command, my king.”

The king held out his hand to Fárbauti. “Indeed. Come, sit by me.”

Fárbauti’s gaze darted anxiously to the disapproving faces of the seated lords. “My king, it is not fitting.”

“It is fitting if I say it is.” Laufey gestured to the burly lord who had been seated to his left. “Loki, give place to my guest of honour.”

The one who was called Loki heaved himself from the ground and gave the king the shallowest of bows before striding from the room..

As he resumed his place next to Nàl, the king gave a small, infinitely malicious smile, commenting: “you see, he would rather leave the company altogether than change his seat. Oh, what a terrible vice is pride. Come–” he blinked at Fárbauti. “You have a name, I suppose?” 

“I am called Fárbauti.”

“‘Cruel striker’? What did your dam mean by that, I wonder.”

“It was my sire who named me,” Fárbauti said, sinking upon the furs as gracefully as he could manage.

“You knew your sire? How unusual. Well, what did _he_ mean by it?” 

“It was what everyone called his grandam – he was a smith.”

Laufey blinked at him and then laughed. “There is little mystery to you after all, it seems.” He brought forth ice in the form of a small drinking cup and poured some clear liquid from a carafe into it.

“Lifewater,” he said, holding it out to Fárbauti. “Do you know what that is?”

Fárbauti shook his head, taking a tentative sip and then coughing.

Laufey snorted. “Nothing but a beautiful bumpkin, after all.” 

*~*~*

Fárbauti woke not knowing what time it was, whether day or night. He stumbled out of the room and into the corridor before realising that he had no idea how to reach anything like an exterior. Where did all these exalted lords relieve themselves?

A small child he found yawning expansively and scrubbing slow circles on a portion of floor gave him directions to something called a garderobe. When he tried to find his way back through the labyrinth of corridors Fárbauti discovered that he was utterly lost, without a member of the household in sight. He wandered for some minutes and with an increasing sense of disorientation until at long last he found a sign of life, a door set a little ajar, with lights flickering within. 

Fárbauti knocked and called out a soft greeting.

An elder giant came to the doorway – a warrior by his bearing and markings. The suite Fárbauti glimpsed within was larger and more well-appointed than his own – this was apparently a figure of some importance. 

“Ah,” he smiled in recognition, “it is the fair Fárbauti.” 

“Please excuse me,” Fárbauti bowed as low as he could. “I’m lost an I can’t find anyone to tell me the way back to the room I was placed in.”

“The hour is very late, the servants will all be in bed.”

Fárbauti began to wring his hands in anguish. “Then what should I do?”

“Well, why don’t you come inside.”

“Oh, no... I would disturb you...” 

“No, indeed!” the other giant gave a soft laugh. “The old, you know, do not require much sleep. We have done with our plotting and striving.” The warrior lord stepped back and beckoned him. “Please, come in – my name is Thrym.”

Fárbauti stepped in and let Thrym close over the door.

“I am writing letters,” Thrym indicated a table dotted with candles and parchment, “and will be occupied for some hours yet. Why don’t you lie down and take some rest? Your journey and the tribulations of the evening must have taken their toll.”

Fárbauti seated himself on the edge of the huge fur-spread pallet. “Who are you writing to?”

“My children. Members of my household.”

“How many children have you?”

“Two, both full-grown now.”

“What are they called?”

“Thrym. Everyone in my line is – a tradition of sorts.”

Fárbauti gathered the furs about himself. “Will you tell me about them?” 

Thrym’s eyes twinkled. “A dam needs little enough encouragement to brag. My younger child is of your age. He is much like I was in my youth: strong, agile and skilled at arms, gregarious in nature and well-loved by his friends. Not much of a scholar, but then that is not required of a lord. Sometimes I think it a pity that the elder will succeed to the estate – the younger is altogether more worldly.” 

“What is the elder like?”

“A brilliant scholar and magician.”

“A magician? Is there really such a thing?”

“Oh, of course there is!”

“What can he do?”

“All manner of things – perform healing, govern the elements. Weave the most intricate illusions – he could make it seem he was sitting here now, while he is off somewhere else entirely.”

“Sounds like a recipe for mischief – he must have been a difficult child.”

Thrym’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “At times – clever children always are.” 

Fárbauti kneaded the furs anxiously, casting his eyes downwards. “Were you afraid when it came to the birth of your first?”

“I suppose I must have been. The lying-in was not easy, I know, but afterwards it all faded away, somehow. Those long hours of labour are like something from a dream.”

“I’m going to have a baby,” Fárbauti said, speaking the words before he had even acknowledged this as a truth to himself.

“Oh?” Thrym smiled kindly. “It is good to have hope, but do not let the expectation weigh on you. You are very young, yet. Just enjoy your season and take what follows as it comes.”

“No,” Fárbauti sat straighter. “I mean, I’m with child now.”

“How can that be? It’s now bearing time, and your belly is flat.”

“I’m... I’m always out of season. I had my time, and my blood did not come. Now I’m tired and sick to my stomach all the time. I remember it was how my sire was when he carried my little brother.”

Thrym nodded, regarding him thoughtfully. “Well, if it is so, I wish you joy.”

Fárbauti shook his head and his bottom lip trembled.

“There now. It is natural to be apprehensive.”

“It’s not... oh, I wish I was safe with my family. I don’t know if I’m guest or prisoner here.”

“Alas, that is the way of the court.” Thrym threaded his fingers together on his lap. “I will not tell you that there is nothing to fear – outside these walls you may know a wolf by that it goes on four legs, but here they go on two. You will find yourself surrounded by envy and bitterness, and there will be many you encounter who would gladly do you harm if only to advance themselves.” The old giant’s expression was sympathetic but grave. “If it is in my power to help you, I will, but you must be strong, Fárbauti. Make that fair face of yours a mask, admitting of no weakness.”

Fárbauti nodded, brushing away his tears and letting out a long, steadying breath. “Tell me about King Laufey. Have you known him long?”

“Oh, since he was a willful little child.”

“Are you close to him?”

Thrym shook his head and gave a regretful purse of his lips. “Once, I had his ear, and even his affections, but, alas, no longer. Perhaps he simply tired of my company, or perhaps I offended him – his generation is nothing like mine. They are all so demanding – nothing less than a lover’s full and undivided attention will satisfy them.”

“Is he... is he cruel?” 

“Oh, yes. Or rather, ruthless – a degree of that is always necessary in a king if he wishes to reign unchallenged.” Thrym tisked at the sound of Fárbauti’s yawn. “Come now, you are like my Elder when he falls snoring atop his books because he would not admit defeat. Lie back and take some rest.”

Fárbauti shifted backwards on the bed and reclined on the heaped furs. “Please, keep talking. I find your voice comforting.”

“Alright. Shall I write aloud, then?”

“If it is not a private matter.”

“Oh, nothing that goes forth from this castle does so unobserved, so what I send is merely the everyday nonsense. This is what I shall write to my elder...” Thrym’s speech slowed as he began to trace out his words, periodically breaking off to clink his slim wand of ice on the inkhorn.

> ‘My beloved firstborn,
> 
> Although I know that you love not the duties of a host, I trust that you have not allowed the house to become utterly stripped of cheer in my absence. Write and tell me if that true captain Lodinn is yet delivered, and if so was it safely. For if the babe thrives I will bring it a gift from the temple priests, and if not I will ask for prayers in his name. 
> 
> I hear your voice complaining that Younger goes among the soldiers more than yourself, but your sib is a very slack correspondent. Indeed, I might wait a whole season before it occurs to him to lift a pen. I dare say you two seldom meet but at meals – for you are always locked away within and he tramping without, but kiss him for me when you do see him. Tell him the youths here all still pine for him and ask if he will come back to court for the high holiday. Tell him that if he refuses, I will be forced to offer the poor, forlorn things comfort in his absence. 
> 
> Now to the only news which will be of interest to you – I have gone among the elves who have come to visit our fair capital in the milder weather, and I have found one who is a bookseller. I cannot read their strange letters, but I have enough of their tongue to say the word ‘magic’ and he heaped me with tomes and showered me with excited chatter. No doubt many will be useless to you, but you may sort through the hoard as you will.
> 
> Try to refrain from torturing our poor Tryggðmål too much. It is not his fault he is in love with you to the exclusion of all dignity, and no-one would blame you if you occasionally let him pull you into a dusty alcove.”

Thrym added his name and carefully affixed his seal to the bottom, then turned to see that his guest had fallen fast asleep. 

*~*~*

Fárbauti woke before dawn to find the other side of the bed occupied by Thrym, who was lying on his back with his face turned away, chest rising and falling with the slowness of deep slumber. He was naked – Fárbauti felt the sides of his own girdle digging into him and got up and unlatched it. It was strange to sleep next to someone who was neither a lover nor kin – in fact, almost a total stranger. Yet Thrym seemed wise and kind, and the unfeigned warmth with which he had spoken of his children had caused Fárbauti to trust him. 

*~*~*

As they walked down the corridor the next morning Fárbauti chewed his bottom lip in agitation. “Perhaps I should try to find the room they placed me in. I’m sure I should stay there until I am sent for.”

“Nonsense,” returned Thrym. “Come, you ate nothing last night and you have been walking for many days.”

“The servants will think–” Fárbauti glanced fearfully at the elder giant. “They will think that I snuck into your room to lie with you.”

Thrym laughed. “Then let them think so. Those who hear of it will be wild with jealousy.”

“Wouldn’t you be ashamed at such a rumour – that a great lord would debase himself with a peasant?”

Thrym stopped and turned. “Do you truly have no idea how much power you could wield, if you chose to?”

Fárbauti made a tisking sound. “What, because I am fair?”

“Because you are a god.”

Fárbauti let out a sharp and incredulous laugh. “No I’m not! A god doesn’t eat or sleep or fuck or–”

“Well exactly!” Thrym placed a hand on his shoulder and gave him a level gaze. “Our gods are vague and distant, and we are all of us so small. You think lords are different from peasants – that we are too proud, too rational to accept your gifts? Cannot a lord be childless, or lonely?”

“I don’t really have any miraculous powers. I just listen to people – listen to their troubles and pray for them. That’s all.”

Thrym nodded and gently squeezed his arm. “It is enough – here, as in the provinces.”

*~*~*

Fárbauti was to discover that his allotted role was that of an ornament for the king – an accessory that hung at his side when he appeared in public, though not much spoken to or regarded. In the beginning, he languished in a home-sickness far more debilitating than the nausea of early pregnancy. The cruel smiles and narrow glances of the court made him pine for his family and their gruff, bickering ways. Yet, when sufficient time had passed he learned to sit patiently and observe. 

It soon became clear that the king’s only real confidante was his brother. A strange pair they made: Nàl, easy-mannered and phlegmatic where Laufey was ill-tempered and sour. Their closeness did not mean that Nàl was spared Laufey’s barbs, but the prince had an ability to shrug all but the cruelest and most pointed these off. His laughter and good-humour seemed to act as a balm to Laufey, who Fárbauti had observed to be prone to dark moods.

Then, one day, Nàl departed – returning to his own estate and beloved, oft-mentioned child. Laufey feigned indifference at his brother’s departure, but thereafter sank into a depression that made his previous episodes look like giddy high spirits. Laufey spoke hardly a word for days, then (as if to repay the frequent solicitations of his lords with an equal weight of bile) began to engage the company in insulting banter, reviving old quarrels and humiliating those who sat nearest by requesting his skalds to recount the misdeeds of their ancestors. 

The benches emptied at an astonishing rate as the courtiers quickly found excuses to draw themselves homewards. Finally, on one evening when the top table was almost empty, Laufey turned his head and finally seemed to recalled Fárbauti’s presence.

“Ah, my charming churl. Come, you have not been very entertaining of late.”

Fárbauti smiled placidly. “If I displease you, King Laufey, you may always send me home again.”

“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, very much.”

“There are those who would be very grateful, you know, to be plucked from obscurity.” He gestured to their surroundings. “From barbaric darkness into the light of culture.”

“Forgive me, my king, but the truth is that I find the court a very dull place.”

Laufey laughed at this. “Poetry, music and blood feuds don’t appeal? What more can the country offer?”

“Dancing, for one thing.”

“‘Dancing’,” Laufey sneered, “and what is that, pray tell?”

Fárbauti thought the king might be teasing him at first, but Laufey’s expression showed no recognition of the word. “It is movement to music. It can be done alone, or with a partner.”

“Like fucking, then?”

Fárbauti smiled. “It is often leads to that. At least, in certain companies or at the right time of year.”

“Will you favour us with a demonstration?”

Fárbauti tilted his head and listened to the skald’s slow, mournful recitation of the history of a long-ago battle. “This is not the right kind of music.”

“Then I suggest you improvise.”

“If it amuses you, o king,” Fárbauti returned tartly, rising to his feet and making his way around the table.

Standing at the centre of the room, Fárbauti felt the weight of curious gazes. He closed his own eyes and thought of his home – of his sire teaching little Golnir to dance with a look of patient amusement, the child giggling and his feet going every which way. Then he thought of the festival held during the fertile time of the previous year, when he had been standing at the edge of the group of amorous dancers (uncertain if he should join) and Holt had appeared. Too shy to speak, the hunter had offered a hand and led Fárbauti to the centre of the crowd. Holt moved with a steadiness that made it easy to fall in rhythm with the steps. Later they made love in a hollow beyond the festival grounds, the sound of music and laughter filtering down to them. Afterwards Holt introduced himself and Fárbauti laughed, embarrassed at having been so perfunctory (“I’ve never fallen upon a stranger like this.” “But you’re not a stranger to me – oh, long have I watched you, Fárbauti!”).

Blocking the insolent stares from his mind with these fond memories, Fárbauti cast his eyes downwards to concentrate on his steps. Raising his arms away from his body, he spun and leapt in graceful arcs across the floor.

Only when the song finished did he come to a halt. He looked up to find the remaining lords were smiling behind their hands. Thrym gave him a fond, yet pitying look.

“Go,” snapped Laufey. “You have amused us enough with your country ways.”

*~*~*

Fárbauti woke with a jerk and a sharp intake of breath, gathering the furs over his lap on instinct. He blinked and was for a brief moment able to make out a profile outlined against the torchlight coming from the corridor before the door closed and the figure became an indistinct shadow. 

“Who are you? What are you doing in my room?”

“Your room?” came Laufey’s voice, slow and softly burred round the edges. “I think you’ll find it’s mine.”

“You’ve been drinking,” Fárbauti said. He could smell the medicinal waft of Laufey’s breath from across the room.

“Is one of your miraculous powers stating the obvious?” the comment trailed off in a tired drawl. Laufey slumped down onto the edge of the bed, his limbs uncharacteristically sapped of grace and energy.

“Are you going to force me?”

Laufey snorted. “Do not you think I could find a willing partner if I wanted one – that those courtiers are not so desperate for advancement that they wouldn’t drop their girdles at my merest suggestion?”

“But it is what warriors enjoy, isn’t it? Making sure everyone knows how strong and ruthless they are.”

“You have a point. But, no, I am not going to force you.”

“What do you want, then?”

“You are my prize, are you not – what does one do with a treasure, but put it somewhere secure and gaze upon it at leisure?”

“You’ve stared at me all day, have you not had your fill yet?”

“Ah, but you are a strange kind of meat – that which makes those who would feed upon it ever hunger for more.”

“I thought perhaps you had sickened yourself. I didn’t seem to please you at all today.”

“I was in an ill humour, but see, the vapours from my cup have purged it.”

“Is it because your brother left?”

“Nàl?” Laufey made a hysterical sound at the back of his throat. “Who cares for him? He can languish in that paltry little estate of his as long as he chooses.”

“I don’t think you like it when he goes away.”

“Oh – have you made a study of my character, then?” 

“I listen, that is my profession. I have shared in the troubles of many, both things that were spoken and those left unsaid.”

“And what is it you think you know of me?”

“You are jealous of your brother.”

Laufey laughed sharply. “Why should that be? I have the throne.”

“But you are not beloved, as he is – you have not his easy manners or good nature. You hate the thought that the court defer to you out of duty alone, thus you do all you can to antagonize your lords – whether to prove yourself right or wrong I do not know.”

Laufey opened his mouth and then closed it, the glazed look in his eyes narrowing into something more focused.

“Nor are you blessed with a child,” Fárbauti continued smoothly. “It galls you to hear how he dotes on his little one, and even more to think his offspring could one day rule your kingdom.”

‘Oh,” said Laufey. “Is _that_ what you think? If you can convince me I am desperate for a child, desperate to be loved, then perhaps I will let you bargain with me for the use of your powers?”

“I have never asked anything in return for a blessing. If you desire one, all you have to do is ask, my king.”

“How is it done?”

Fárbauti smiled, opened his mouth to say it was nothing more than a hand on his belly – but something dark and uncertain in Laufey’s expression gave him pause. 

“You must undress,” he heard himself say. “And kneel on the floor.”

He expected a snide remark, anger perhaps – but Laufey went stiff, turning his face away.

“You will tell _no-one_ ,” he said, a low, dangerous voice.

Fárbauti nodded wordlessly, his throat dry as he watched the king unlatch his girdle and move to the floor. Laufey’s back was straight and supple, and even with his head bowed he looked regal. 

Fárbauti rose from the bed, naked, and sank to his knees behind the king. 

“I will place my hands on you now. Close your eyes.”

He traced the line between Laufey’s abdominal muscles, feeling him twitch as if in discomfort. then laid his hands flat on the lower right side. His left arm curved around the king’s waist, like the tentative embrace of a dancing couple.

“Are you going to mumble some deep-sounding nonsense now – whatever it is that passes for magic in the provinces?”

“Nothing like that. Just close your eyes and think about the child.” 

“What child?”

“The one you hope to have. Imagine that miraculous little speck finding a home in your womb; imagine your belly swelling as it grows.”

“Very well,” Laufey sighed, falling silent for a moment before he turned his head back to Fárbauti and asked: “Well – is that it?” he turned his head slightly.

“That’s it.” Fárbauti made to sit back, thinking that the king would want to be released from such intimate proximity, but instead Laufey clasped him, pressing Fárbauti’s palms more firmly against his taut stomach.

“I’ve never felt anything as soft as your hands.”

“They aren’t even the softest part of me, so I’ve been told, by those who have felt the brush of my hair, the touch of my lips.”

“Has that been a privilege granted to many?”

“No, only a few.”

Laufey turned his head and looked back at him over his shoulder, his thick, white-tipped eyelashes dipping. “What set them apart, that you chose to bestow your favours on them?”

“I don’t know. They were convenient, I suppose.” 

“Do you always do that, fall upon whatever is near at hand?”

“I...” Fárbauti felt his breath catch in his throat, his voice growing embarrassingly tremulous. He wanted the king to kiss him, and yet was terrified – he had to fight the urge to turn away and hide.

Laufey’s face came closer until Fárbauti felt the brush of his narrow lips. The kiss was careful, and precise at first – as if Laufey was trying to work out exactly the best plan of attack. He wound his arms around Fárbauti’s back and pulled him in tight.

He had not thought the king would be so strong – every part of his long, lean body was solid with muscle. Fárbauti tilted his head back and closed his eyes, letting his mouth go soft and shuddering as Laufey took his bottom lip between his teeth and tugged. 

The moment Laufey’s grip relaxed, Fárbauti found himself scrambling back onto the bed, patting the space next to him to make his intentions clear. Laufey loomed over him, the bed creaking under his weight. Fárbauti spread his thighs and arched his spine, gripping the furs and letting his eyes flutter closed. The nausea that had been his familiar friend through the last few weeks had finally receded, and he wanted this – the simplicity of touch. Peasants and princes, he was sure, fucked alike. 

He breathed out and waited, skin pricking as he anticipated the touch of the king’s hands. When it did not come, Fárbauti opened his eyes again to find Laufey staring at him with some curiosity.

“What are you waiting for?”

“What are _you_ waiting for?” Laufey echoed pointedly. “Why are you lying there like a corpse?”

“This is how I always make love,” Fárbauti said, puzzled. “I like to be kissed and caressed, just like this,” he placed the king’s hand on his stomach, dragging it downwards.

“Oh, so you _do_ demand to be worshipped?” Laufey smiled crookedly at him. “Very well,” he caressed the smooth flesh of Fárbauti’s inner thighs before sliding a well-angled finger into him, thrusting shallowly and making him cant his hips up for more. “I will happily pay homage at such an altar.”

“Only with your hands?” Fárbauti gasped. “Are not lips, too, made for praise?”

Laufey laughed, a deep rumble emanating from his chest as he bent his back to comply with Fárbauti’s wishes. “Oh, we will make a pert courtier of you yet.” 

*~*~*

Afterwards, they slept, Laufey lying pressed against Fárbauti’s smooth back, nose tickled by the cascading mass of his dark hair.

Fárbauti woke to the ticklish sensation of calloused fingertips tracing patterns upon the swell of his hip. He gave a grunt of displeasure, sliding one leg forward as he wriggled into a more comfortable position. Undaunted by Fárbauti’s weak protest, Laufey continued his idle stroking. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen Midgard, or heard of its wonders?”

“No,” Fárbauti said plaintively, still faintly hoping he would be able to ignore Laufey’s restlessness and slide back into sleep. 

“Well,” Laufey began in his ironical drawl, “for all that its people are small and weak, it is a realm of nine, ten times the size of ours. There are places as cold as the very heart of this realm, and those as hot as Muspelheim. Places as bright as Asgard, yet much more varied and bountiful.”

Fárbauti yawned and rubbed his eyes. “Have you been there, Laufey?”

“Only in books and dreams, fair one. Yet, sometimes things I see in dreams come to pass, and so I think I will have cause to journey there – one day. You make me think on it – the hues and textures of your body remind me of that bounteous place.” His fingers rasped against the odd little line of coarse hair that led up from the base of Fárbauti’s prick. “Here is a grassland, look.... and here a cave,” Laufey’s fingertip slipped into Fárbauti’s navel, sending a delicious sharp tingle down his spine and making him laugh, toes wriggling. Then a hand closed around the base of his shaft and squeezed. “Oh yes, and here one of their towering trees – so much greater in majesty than our poor stunted ones...” 

Fárbauti’s chuckle became a gasp as Laufey shifted back to explore him from behind, the king’s thumb working into the seam of his labia, parting and gently pinching. “Ah, and _here_ , one of the miraculous flowers of the torrid zone – red-purple and glistening.”

“Stop it,” Fárbauti protested. “I am not Midgard.” 

Laufey’s voice was rich with amusement. “No indeed - that realm is untouched and you are not.”

Fárbauti turned his head just enough that Laufey could press a greedy kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Oh, so last night you were a pilgrim, and now all of a sudden you fancy yourself a brave conqueror?”

Laufey’s answer was to press him into the bed with all his lean, knotty body. The head of his prick twitched against Fárbauti’s folds, and, in response, Fárbauti spread his thighs a little wider and waited, drowsy and sensitive, until the king breached him. 

What began as slow, languid tryst soon became frenzied, Laufey’s hands gripping his hips so tightly that the nails left half-moon dents in Fárbauti’s soft flesh. 

Oh, cautious Holt had never made him feel so roughly dealt with! Fárbauti reveled in the weight and force – he could barely get breath into his lungs and there was a sharp, delicious tingling where he was held open by Laufey’s prick. When the king pulled him onto his knees he went utterly limp and let himself be held at that angle as Laufey slipped back into him. Fárbauti’s own member felt so flushed and heavy between his legs, he knew that it would take only the lightest of touches to make him come.

“If it weren’t for your moaning,” Laufey hissed into his ear, grunting with effort, “and the way your wet, eager cunt keeps flexing, I’d think you a very uninterested partner.”

Fárbauti yelped and shuddered at this. He then found himself once-more pressed into the mattress under the full weight of the king’s body, the rough scrape of the furs bringing him off even as he felt the last of Laufey’s twitches and the trickle of his seed down his inner thigh.

They lay panting, Fárbauti slapping Laufey’s hand away when it went to tug at his overly-sensitive nipples. 

“So ungrateful,” Laufey murmured against his neck. “This is how you thank your brave conqueror, who makes such great efforts to bring you into line?”

“Perhaps you will have better luck with Midgard.”

Laufey laughed, the vibrations carrying down Fárbauti’s spine. “Perhaps so. I find it difficult to imagine that there are creatures more savage or intractable than you.”

Fárbauti gave a groan of displeasure at the teasing and then promptly fell fast asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jotnar live in castles with medieval plumbing features, ok? WALT SIMONSON MADE ME DO IT.


End file.
